THE PROPOSAL They stood beneath the great trees of the ancestral park, into which Lord Mordaunt had followed Winnifred at a single bound.

All about them was the radiance of early June.
Lord Mordaunt knelt on one knee on the greensward, and with a touch in which respect and reverence were mingled with the deepest and manliest emotion, he took between his finger and thumb the tip of the girl's gloved hand.
"Miss Clair," he uttered, in a voice suffused with the deepest yearning, yet vibrating with the most profound respect, "Miss Clair--Winnifred--hear me, I implore!" "Alas," cried Winnifred, struggling in vain to disengage the tip of her glove from the impetuous clasp of the young nobleman, "alas, whither can I fly?
I do not know my way through the wood, and there are bulls in all directions.

I am not used to them! Lord Mordaunt, I implore you, let the tears of one but little skilled in the art of dissimulation----" "Nay, Winnifred," said the Young Earl, "fly not.

Hear me out!" "Let me fly," begged the unhappy girl.
"You must not fly," pleaded Mordaunt.

"Let me first, here upon bended knee, convey to you the expression of a devotion, a love, as ardent and as deep as ever burned in a human heart.